Same Time Tomorrow
by BookWyrm90
Summary: So many people try to bring real world logic to this game. What if you did the opposite? Rated T for mention of drugs, some language, and vague descriptions of gore.
1. My Little Ship of Nightmares

There are all kinds of addictions.

Drugs are the most obvious ones. Recreational, prescription, anything that can alter perceptions. How you interpret the flow of information around you. How you sense that flow. Some are easy to hide. Others will knock you flat on your back as the world melts and you can do nothing but watch it happen.

Of course, not all addictions are something you take.

Feelings can be just as addicting as drugs

Love. Happiness. Sadness.

Fear.

I guess the last is my addiction of choice.

Why else would I come back night after night? Low pay and high risk. There's nothing keeping me here. I tell myself occasionally that I just want to solve the mystery of what happened with The Bite (which has been elevated through urban legends to deserve those capitals) and the murders. Five kids. Here, then gone. Never to be seen again.

I haven't been able to bring myself to actually check the animatronics to see if there's something besides machinery inside.

Well, something visible, anyways.

I already know what's invisible in them.

But I digress. Fear, mystery, adrenalin; one of these, maybe all of them, is the reason I keep returning to Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. Night after night of almost dying.

Early in the week it's not so bad. I guess the animatronics are programed to lower settings while the kids are mostly away at school. Fridays and Saturdays often show up in my nightmares. The fraction of my paycheck that's not devoted to food and rent goes to my therapist. Or did, until she refused to see me anymore. Says I'm wasting both our time. She thinks I'm hallucinating. Wants me to stop taking drugs and start up some unpronounceable medication. Won't take me back on until I do. Joke's on her, I can't afford either. Even if I could, I can't allow my reflexes to slow like that. Lives are at stake. Mine in particular.

* * *

Mike Schmidt awoke with a start. He glanced over the room confirming where he was. Dread pooled in his stomach as he recognized the messy desk, walls covered in drawings, and constantly whirling fan of his work station. "Shit." Strong language for a place that was, supposedly, dedicated to bringing joy to children, but it was after hours and 'child friendly' words would not fully describe what had just happened.

Mike frantically shoved his sleeve up so he could see his watch. He nearly melted in relief when he saw that it was just turning twelve. It was only Wednesday, so he should have a few minutes to compose himself so long as he checked on Foxy during that time.

 _I can't believe I just fell asleep at work._ Mike thought to himself. Even if Freddy's had been a completely normal pizzeria/robotics show extraordinaire, he didn't think he would have ever been able to get over how straight up creepy the animatronics were in order to fall asleep in the first place.

 _Then again,_ Mike thought cynically, _maybe they're just creepy because I've been working_ here _for the past few months._

God only knows why.

Even if he did get some sort of weird thrill from surviving the animatronics night after night.

Pitting himself against the worst they could throw at him and coming through unscathed. The close calls he had when he wasn't able to manage his power to last, quite, the whole night. The lights would go out, Freddy would play that creepy music box tune, and he would be dragged off towards the back room with all the spare costumes. He'd always managed to last long enough that the clock would reach six before their strange procession managed to actually reach its destination. He'd learned that the animatronics would immediately stop whatever they were in the middle of, and resume their positions on the stage when the clock changed over. Even if the interrupted task was murdering him. But there was always that unanswered question. Was today going to be the day when he reached the back room? Was today the day when he would make some rookie mistake and get knocked off by vengeful children's icons? Was today the day when his best wasn't good enough?

And maybe he knew exactly why he kept coming back, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself. The thrill of the nightly trials. The rush of adrenaline when he realized he would survive another day. Or when he checked a door light and realized someone was _right there_ and maybe today was the day he wouldn't reach the button in time.

Maybe he had a problem. What else would you call it when someone regularly, purposefully, flirted with Death.

At least she didn't seem to mind the attention. Maybe Death got lonely. Wanted someone to see her without being reduced into a gibbering puddle of fear and tears. Maybe that was the only reason she hadn't decided that today was the day she would come for him.

Mike softly snorted his amusement at his own thoughts as he flipped through the cameras and checked the light outside both doors. It said something about his life now that musing over his theoretical relationship with the personification of death wasn't even the oddest thing in his day. At least, today it wasn't. No, today that spot was taken by that weird dream of his.

He had been at work, _can't even escape this place in my sleep_ , and it had finally happened. He'd been too slow. They grabbed him. Dragged him back towards the empty costumes. It had just turned four so he knew there was no way he would make it to six. He hadn't tried to get away, though. The first and only time he had struggled with the robots physically, Bonnie had almost pulled his arm out of its socket dragging him down the hall. The pain had brought tears to his eyes and he hadn't immediately realized when the robots stopped dragging him half a minute later. In fact, it wasn't until he noticed that he had been dropped and the robots that had once surrounded him were retreating to take their places on stage, that Mike had understood that he would not die that day. It had taken hours for the trembling to stop as he thought over exactly how close of a call he had.

This time, the ending had not turned out nearly so well. This time, he had been dragged all the way to the back room by Freddy himself. Chica and Bonnie had been waiting with a suit ready and Foxy had been standing just off to the side. He'd even seen that bizarre Golden Freddy costume half propped up in a corner as if it were overseeing the proceedings. He had always heard that it was impossible to feel pain in dreams. That was why you pinched yourself to see if you were dreaming, right? If you were awake, it would hurt. If you weren't, it would wake you up. Utter lies.

Mike flinched away from even the memory of… what had happened next. It was something of a blessing that the exact details surrounding broken bones, pierced skin, ripped muscle, contorted limbs were washed away under a blanket of pain. It lay over and covered the… event… as his own screams had lain over any other noises that may or may not have been accompanying those exact details he couldn't, wouldn't, remember. Ever.

Even more surprising than the fact that he had _fallen asleep in a building filled with killer animatronics_ was his own capacity to envision such a fate. _Well,_ Mike though bitterly, _it's not like you've had much else on your mind for a while now_. His own death had been the premier topic in many a conversation he had held with, variously, himself, several random objects throughout his house, and the stray cat that stopped by for scraps. For a time, he had been alarmed that he might be suicidal before coming to the conclusion that anyone who was genuinely suicidal would not be distressed over that thought. The thought that he might be the kind of really, truly crazy that got you stuck in a straitjacket had also crossed his mind, but considering his choice of employment that was probably a boon rather than a fault.

Not actively seeking his own death didn't stop Mike from contemplating it. His speculations had been becoming increasingly gorier over the past couple of weeks; fueled, if anything, by his conclusion that he was not looking to die. Surely that utterly terrifying - or rather, um, _strange_ , yes, utterly strange – dream was merely a result of his increased fascination with the macabre topic.

 _Time to lay off the foreign horror films._ Mike sighed in resignation. As much as he enjoyed watching them, it wasn't worth it if _that_ was the result. Even just a few weeks sabbatical from the movies would have him feeling… probably not better, he still had the worst job in the history of jobs at barely minimum wage, but perhaps less likely to contemplate his own death at the drop of a hat.

Mike slammed the left door in Bonnie's face before checking to see if Chica was still outside his right door. When the light revealed nothing, he popped the door open and leaned back. Mike stretched a bit trying to loosen up muscles that were more tense than usual. At least he thought that was the problem. There wasn't really any other reason for the bone deep ache that seemed to have taken up residence across his entire body. Well, a good hot shower would fix that after he got home. In the meantime, he could deal.

It was right about then that Mike heard a sound that still gave him chills after his months of working here. A deep, mocking laughter. Mike checked his cameras and was unsurprised to find the stage completely empty of animatronics. The expression that crossed his face could, technically, be called a grin in the same way that a hyena can, technically, be called a cat (yay for educational cereal boxes). It was part feral joy, part stark terror and wholly unsettling. "Bring it on." Mike whispered, before settling down to fend off the killer robots in earnest and dismissing all thoughts of his unsettling dream until after he lived through the night.

* * *

Mike rode his bike home in the early hours of the morning. He had long since sold his car off, one of the best decisions he had ever made. Between gas and maintenance, it was far too expensive to drive, and his work place was close enough to the dump he called his apartment to ride back and forth.

Now that he was no longer distracted by homicidal animatronics haunted, probably, by the souls of murdered children, Mike was able to really wonder over his odd narcoleptic episode and the dream that had accompanied it. _I bet it's just because I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately._

He thought this right up until he started undressing for that hot shower he had been looking forward to. As he pulled his shirt off, Mike caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. Scars. From the base of his neck, disappearing into his pants and, Mike frantically pulled one pant leg up, all the way down to his feet. Scars that had not been there last night. There really was only one possible response to this discovery.

"What the hell?!"


	2. Aliens Probed Me, Aliens Probed Me Not

Mike stared in horror at his reflection. The entirety of his chest was a map of scars he _couldn't remember getting_. They were months old, and looked as if they had not been properly treated. The result was a mess. Twisted lines of pale white and angry red crisscrossed his torso, limbs, _neck_. The only place there didn't seem to be any lines was across his face.

Shaking himself out of his horrified trance, Mike finished undressing and stepped into the shower. Bizarre, can't-remember-getting-them wounds or not, he still ached all over. The hot shower was no less appealing. And if he studiously avoided looking at any portion of his skin he did not _absolutely_ have to… well, there was no one here to call him out on it. After the hot water ran out and he could no longer justify avoiding his problems in the bath, Mike got dressed - good thing fall had just started, it would be long sleeves for the foreseeable future - and sat down to think over what had happened. Or hadn't happened. Whatever.

After sitting for several minutes blankly staring into space, Mike came to the brilliant conclusion that he still had no idea what had happened. _Okay, don't really have a way to figure out what_ did _happen_. Mike thought, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, _so maybe I should try to think of what_ could have _happened._ 'Aliens' was the first thing to come to mind and Mike just about switched to pulling his hair in frustration. On the other hand, whatever had happened to him was obviously bizarre and unusual so maybe he _should_ be seriously looking at bizarre and unusual explanations. Oddly pleased at his little trail of logic, Mike decided to continue down the rabbit hole he had peered into. So, aliens.

Most of his knowledge about aliens was centered on little green men with probes designed to go uncomfortable places. Mike had always dismissed such tales as total nonsense, but he currently worked in a pizzeria whose animatronics were haunted by the souls of murderous children. Maybe he was returning to that point too often, but a lot of things no longer seemed so implausible when held up against his job. _I wonder how I would be able to tell if I had been… probed._ Mike turned that thought over in his head a few times and decided that it was a topic worth putting off until later.

So how else did one determine if tin foil hats were going to be featuring in one's upcoming outfits? _Well, wounds like_ that _would have taken time to heal. I don't remember getting hurt, much less the recovery time. And,_ Mike checked the date on his phone, _I haven't lost any time._ Which didn't mean it wasn't aliens. Some kind of sci-fi-ey tech to fix up their unwitting victims, thereby hiding their own deeds was just the kind of thing one would expect from a group of aliens out to probe random citizens in uncomfortable places to further their nefarious schemes! _Maybe I should lay off the old action cartoons for a while too._

Then again, there really, _really_ wasn't anything hidden about his scars. And he would have thought advanced sci-fi-ey tech would have left - cleaner - scars. And cuts. That probably would more closely resemble a 'Y' than the mess that he had. Mike shuddered. Blech. _So, probably not aliens. That's nice._

Natural causes were out of the question for obvious reasons. That left, damn, _super_ natural causes. Which made sense because he found them right after work and couldn't remember having them before work. And because of his dream. Which he was still _absolutely not_ thinking about.

Deciding that this line of reasoning was too depressing to approach on an empty stomach, Mike got up to fix himself breakfast. Supper. Whatever.

Sitting back down, this time with a bowl of cereal, Mike continued his train of thought through nightmare land. Supposing, just for the sake of supposing it, that his nightmare from last night was real. That he had… died… at the hands (gears?) of the animatronics. That they had then brought him back for some reason. So, why? Did this mean they liked him? Or didn't like him? How had they brought him back? Did he even want any of these answers?

Sitting here, eating cereal and contemplating the meaning of life was getting him nowhere. There was an obvious answer to the question, but the process he would need to take to get that answer, if he got it, would take him straight to the source. He would have to ask the animatronics. How, or if, they would respond was a different matter entirely. And, if they did, would he even want to know?

* * *

AN: So in case anybody missed it, this is a not-actually-a-crossover with Edge of Tomorrow. Which actually has nothing to do with the title. I didn't even notice the similarities until I was writing this note. This is my first attempt at something with chapters and I do have some ideas to keep it going. Nothing is actually written, though, so we'll see what happens. Any thoughts or suggestions are welcome. (Please leave a comment:))

Smiley faces don't work inside parenthesis. They just look like they have a double chin.


	3. Decisions, Decisions

Having found a course of action is an entirely different process to going through with said course. Having solved the former, the latter ended up giving Mike a surprising amount of difficulty. Its resolution may or may not have involved flipping a quarter, frantically searching for said quarter when it rolled under the sofa, and then swearing a lot at the results.

In the end, Mike found himself in the middle of the party room twenty minutes before midnight holding a sheet of paper on which he had written (in red crayon, because there is never a pen available when you need one) "Did you bring me back from the dead?" Maybe he could have phrased that better, but already the question is written near the bottom of the sheet since the rest of the page is filled with false starts, crossed out and scribbled over to make them mostly illegible.

He leaves the page and some crayons on a table in the corner. One that is out of sight of the cameras. This is partially because he thinks it is more likely he'll get an answer this way and mostly because he doesn't want to stare at it all night. He waited until Friday to do this so he will have the weekend to think about it. Also because he still had no idea what to do when it was time for him to work Thursday. Procrastination isn't always bad. And overtime can wait until he's done with his existential crisis. He needs a vacation anyways.

It turns out that 'out of sight' does not mean 'out of mind' and he has three close calls before he manages to get his head out of the clouds. Party room. Whatever. Mike manages to make it to morning with a normal number of near misses after that, though the hours seem to drag themselves out even more than usual. As he gathers his things to leave (coat, check – coffee cup, check – bike lock key, check – sanity... three out of four isn't bad) Mike rethinks, again, his plan to get answers. Honestly, haunted or not, the idea that a bunch of animatronics from a pizzeria could bring someone back to life is more than a little absurd. He should just walk right out the door and completely ignore the paper he placed on that little side table. In fact, that is exactly what he is going to do. He is just going to walk right by it and not even think about it. Life will be much simpler when he does.

He grabs the paper on his way out.

Mike stuffs the paper into his pocket, carefully not looking at it. Somethings should be resolved in private where you can freak out a little and not have people call the police on you. Or a lot. Freaking out a lot is also an option. So long as he does it quietly. The walls are useless when it comes to blocking out sounds at his apartment.

The bike ride home is both too short and too long for Mike's taste. He hauls his bike inside and sets it in the vestibule (which, in his apartment, is just a fancy word for the area within about three feet of the door) and begins to make what is probably the most carefully crafted sandwich in the history of sandwiches. After rearranging the cheese for the third time, Mike finally admits to himself that he is just stalling. He brings the sandwich into the living room. _Maybe it should be the dining room instead of the living room when I am eating in here. It only makes sense to change the name when the function changes. Or maybe I can combine the words like people do with celebrity couples and… no. Stop that. You're just stalling again, Mike. Is referring to one's self in the third person a sign of budding insanity? Stalling. Stop that._

Mike decides to open the paper before he eats because he is _not_ stalling and because he has so many butterflies in his stomach he'll probably just throw anything he eats right back up. He spreads the paper out on the table mostly by feel, still carefully not looking at it. One deep, bracing breath later he finally reads it.

A distant corner of his mind is glad he hasn't eaten yet. A small area right beside that is planning the quickest route to the bathroom because not having anything on his stomach is not really making a difference. Across the entirety of the back of the paper is a green 'YES' written in a child's shaky handwriting.

* * *

AN: It only occurred to me after I posted the first two chapters that I should probably mention that the inspiration for this story came from a series written by Dusty_Forgotten over on AO3 collectively known as "Mike Schmidt is Done with Your Shit." If you like this at all, and if you don't then why are you on the third chapter, you should consider heading over there and reading his stuff. Thank you jgrimes900 for your lovely review. I'll try to keep the story going as much as possible, but this is all I have currently written (most of which was completed about five minutes ago) so updates will be sporadic at best. Also, I don't really have an ending in mind right now. I'm just writing to see where I'm going to end up. Also to try out a normal style of writing over my usual more chain-of-consciousness style. Not sure I've actually succeeded there. Thank you to everyone who is reading this. I'll see you next time.


	4. Questions Answered, Answers Questioned

Mike made it to the toilet before emptying his stomach of its contents. Probably for the best. State of mind he was currently in, likely nothing would be cleaned up for a day or two. Keeping a bucket nearby for a while would be a good idea as well. As Mike retrieved his mop bucket (hello, new best friend) he began to thing over what impact this knowledge would have on his life.

He had… died. Horribly. Brutally. Alone with his killers. No one to help him. No one to prevent it. No one but himself to keep it from happening again. Yes, Mike thought as he retched, the mop bucket was going to be his constant companion for a little while.

So he had made it part of the way through last Wednesday and then- yeah. Then the robots had, what, rewound time? Made it so he had never died? Wiped away all evidence of their twisted cruelty outside of his own memory? Which… might actually explain why he had woken up just a minute or two before twelve. If the robots, and the spirits haunting them, were only active between midnight and six in the morning, it would make sense for them to have limited influence outside of that particular time period. Sort of. As much as any of this made sense.

 _And just when I thought my life couldn't get any weirder, I'm trying to apply logic to time manipulation and bringing someone back from the very certainly dead. Outside of a fantasy context._ Mike sighed. On the other hand, this meant his dream was not the twisted product of his subconscious so maybe he wouldn't have to take a break from his beloved horror films! Maybe. Then again, a break didn't sound too bad. Not when the very thought of watching some of his movies had him reaching for his bucket again. _I'll call it Chad. Nice name that. Short, sweet, to the point. Easy to remember. Good for yelling._ He was stalling again.

The sandwich was put back in the fridge, no need to waste good food, and Mike carried Chad into the living room where he could think with both comfort and easy access to the bucket. So the 'how' was kinda figured out/giving him a headache. Obviously the next step was 'why.'

Maybe Mike's other good friend, aspirin, should also join his little think tank… No. No more stalling. At least for the next few minutes.

Why would the killer animatronics of a children's pizza restaurant who had been trying to murder him for over a month go through the trouble of rewinding time for the express purpose of bringing him back to life once they finally succeeded in their goal?

 _Put it like that and it makes even less sense._ Mike was fairly certain someone had once told him that putting life's problems into question form would make them seem easier and more manageable. They were absolutely, fundamentally wrong. Cosmically wrong. So wrong that wrongness itself had taken a step back to figure out how they could possibly ever be that wrong. _To be entirely fair, they probably never considered a situation like_ this _might come up as a 'life problem.'_

Actually, this problem also had a simple solution. One that would answer his question absolutely with no margin for error. _Think I've had my fill of that particular solution for a little bit._ Mike resolutely did not glance towards the terrifying message written in crayon (of all things), currently lying on his coffee table. _There should be rules about that. 'All scary messages should be written in blood, or at least in an appropriately dramatic font using a quill pen.' Or something._ Though the thought of the animatronics obtaining a quill pen for the specific purpose of communicating with him was both gut clenchingly hilarious and gut wrenchingly terrifying. Either way, it was making his poor, abused stomach hurt again.

Time to get back to his theory. A Game Theo- no. Stop that. This is not a game, and you are just distracting yourself again. _Oh joy, talking to myself in the second person now._

Okay. Focus. So… maybe the animatronics were lonely? Could they possibly have been moved by the fact that he had returned, and kept returning, for, wow, months now? Was the turnover rate for this position so horrible that the animatronics would do anything to keep seeing a familiar face? …No. If the robots were really that attached to him, they wouldn't have killed him in the first place. Next idea.

Maybe they felt they owed him something? Perhaps because he kept coming back? Or it could be because of some other completely arbitrary reason. _So exact motives are still fuzzy, but maybe I've hit something with this 'owing me' theory._ It certainly made more sense than some kind of "Friendship is Magic" nonsense.

 _And, ooohh. Am I certain the animatronics are responsible for this? Maybe there is some other party involved? I didn't actually see that it was any of the robots that wrote on the note. But who? To what end?_ Mike mulled over this train of thought for a minute before deciding there wasn't really a point to it. _If there is some third party involved, I have no way of knowing who they might be. So until I find evidence otherwise, I will treat it as though there aren't._

Mike thought over what he had come up with so far. He had a maybe-kinda-sorta reason for _why_ and a possibly-if-I-don't-think-about-it-too-hard method for _how_. He shook his head. The results for his intensive think tank were… umm- meager. Fine, he had nothing. Had nothing, would have nothing until he asked the robots themselves and might still have nothing after that if they didn't want to give him any more information.

What's more, none of this answered the most pressing question of all. _How would he get the animatronics to keep him alive again?_ Mike turned distinctly green at the thought and made sure he knew where Chad was. He didn't want to go through that again ( _pain, crack, rip, tear, smells like copper, endless screams_ ) but he wanted to live and if it happened once it might happen again. Mike spent a few minutes leaning over Chad, trying to keep what was left in his stomach still in his stomach. It didn't work. When he finished retching (and when had he eaten carrots?), Mike returned to his previous contemplations.

Maybe if he fixed the robots some? On the other hand, that sounded like a good way to make them dangerouser (it's absolutely a word now, 'cause I say so) than before. Maybe if he cleaned the restaurant up? God knows no one else did it unless some kid had an accident. The kind where you eat too much pizza and spew your guts across the floor, not the kind where you tangle with haunted animatronics and need a hospital. Or a morgue. Though, come to think of it, hadn't that guy on the phone mentioned something about a kid losing his frontal lobe in '87? So, actually both kinds.

Mike scrubbed his hands across his face in an attempt to banish the images his mind had so helpfully supplied on what that might look like. He paused mid-action as a sudden thought came to him. _The suits are haunted by the ghosts of murdered children. And I don't think the case was ever solved. Maybe if I can figure out what happened,_ Mike froze as realization dawned on him, _maybe I could even make the robots be_ just _robots. No more dead kids, no more murdering, no_ need _to be brought back from the dead._

Mike smiled. Then a thought occurred to him.

 _If I'm trying to not tick off the killer robots. Coming into work when they are expecting me sounds like a pretty good idea all of a sudden._ Maybe he didn't need that vacation after all.

* * *

AN: On an entirely unrelated note, THE NINTENDO NX HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN ANNOUNCED! Make way for the new Nintendo Switch. Sorry if that seemed overenthusiastic. Well, not sorry at all, actually, I've been looking forward to this for a while. In celebration of this, three new Breath of the Wild trailers/videos, getting a package in the mail that I had been waiting for, and my favorite fancomic updating on DeviantArt all in the same day, I pushed ahead and finished writing this chapter so I could get it uploaded. Hope you like it, reviews are always welcome. See you all next time.


	5. Room Service

Mike arrived just over an hour early for his shift. He spent about thirty minutes of his extra time changing bulbs, dusting cobwebs, and mopping floors. Another ten minutes were devoted to that one stain just outside the guard room that had been bugging him since he had finished listening to the instructional messages left by his predecessor. It didn't really go away, Mike suspected he would need some heavy duty chemicals to fully clean it up, but it looked better than it had.

With only a few minutes left if he was going to get settled in by 11:45, Mike went around to Freddy, Bonnie and Chica and hosed them down with Febreze. He didn't have the time to clean them, or the nerves, but at least they would smell better. A little. Though the combination of Happy Spring and the robots' Eau du Natural was… interesting.

Foxy presented something of a challenge as Mike was by no means comfortable with sticking his hand anywhere near the animatronics, activated or not, if he couldn't see them. On the other hand, opening the curtain to see Foxy, and potentially getting jumped by Foxy, wasn't appealing either. Glancing at his watch didn't help matters as it ticked down from 11:43 to 11:44. Mike spent a frantic half minute debating his options before throwing the curtain dramatically aside and quickly leaping after it. When nothing happened immediately, he peered around the corner to see Foxy standing in the middle of the stage. He wasn't even posed like the others were, as though they had just finished a song or skit and were transitioning to the next item in their programming. Instead he was just kind of slumped over with one foot off to the side as if he had been frozen in the middle of taking a step or turning around.

Honestly, it might be creepier.

Scratch that. It was definitely creepier.

Mike leaned as close as he could without stepping inside the curtains and sprayed the fox down like he had with the others. _He might actually smell the worst. Maybe I should get a different scent. Don't the make something to cover up pet odors?_ A glance at his watch had him rushing to complete the final task of the night. Momma Schmidt hadn't raised no ill-mannered idjits, and, honestly, politeness couldn't possibly hurt him. It might even help.

Which was why Mike was rushing around the pizzeria grabbing a paper mat, it had a blank side the kids could draw on, and a red sharpie, because he was done with the crayons and it was the only other thing he could find on short notice. Then, in big letters, he wrote out 'THANKS' across the mat and left it on the same corner table he had employed last time.

He made it back to the guardroom with eight short minutes to spare. As his hands sped through their normal routines on autopilot, Mike began mentally preparing himself for the most difficult night of the week. Flip the tablet on, wait for it to power up. _Don't forget to close the right door when checking the cameras._ Close left door, close right door. _Don't track Chica and Bonnie's movements, no matter how tempting. You don't have the power for that_. Left light on, right light on. _Just remember to always conserve power._ Check the stage, _Bonnie's missing already_ , check Pirate's Cove, _curtains shut_ , no robots outside the windows. Doors open, lights off, cameras down.

Mike sat in the half-light provided by the overhead bulb which, unhelpfully, mostly just illuminated the room he sat in with little spillage into the hallways. He kept one ear listening for Freddy and the other strained for any hint of movement. He never lost the hope that perhaps today would be the day when he was able to hear the massive, clunky robots traveling down thirty feet of laminated hall flooring on their way to brutally murder him. It never worked, of course, but that hadn't yet stopped him from trying.

Freddy's haunting – _haunting, ha_ – laugh drifted down the hallway. Hopefully – _hope, ha_ – he would be less distracted today.

* * *

AN: Hi... It's been a minute... I did say this would be getting irregular updates.

Anyways, one of the biggest reasons this has been so delayed was because I wasn't very happy with the previous chapter but didn't really know how to fix it. I've been trying to use the grim and the hilarious as counterparts throughout this story and I felt like I hadn't really accomplished that with the previous chapter. The constant subconscious attempts to avoid the subject at hand were funny the first few times, if that, but quickly became boring. I think I've done better with this chapter, though.

That being said, I have always felt that the worst person to go to for feed back is yourself so I would love to hear your opinions on the matter. Should I attempt some sort of tonal shift? Is there anything in particular you would like to see included? I really only have the vaguest sense of where this story is going so as long as it doesn't break too far from what I'm trying for (there will be no making friends with the robots; as interesting as that can be, I've always thought it was wildly implausible at the very best. How many people do you know that would ever think to themselves _O_ _h look, a murderous supernatural thing. Let's go make friends with it!_ Show of hands? Didn't think so. Pay no attention to the example of this type of story sitting in my favorites list.) You see why I wrote Mike as wildly distractible in the last chapter. It is how mine own mind works.

So, summation. Please review. Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, and what you want to see. I'll do my best to accommodate. And now I think my Author's Note is longer than my chapter. See you all next time!


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